


Waking

by allstoriesintheend



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Trailer, Memories, Post-Winter Soldier, Waking Up, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allstoriesintheend/pseuds/allstoriesintheend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn’t the Soldier anymore. He was just James, or at least he thought he was. He was just a man without meaning, a relic that should have been left where it had crashed down to. They should have never found him. They should have never created the monster that he had been for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The panic had set in before his eyes had opened. He went to reach under his head, only to be met with thick straps holding him down. He struggled against them, straining his body as much as he could. His eyes flew open wildly, trying to focus.

 

White. 

 

Everything was white. They darted around the room several times, looking for the quickest possible exits. He went to clench his hands into fists and his breath hitched in his throat when he realised that only the human hand was responding. He turned his head to his shoulder, seeing emptiness where his bionic arm should have been. The open space made him uncomfortable, only forcing him to fight against his bonds more. He grunted, trying to tear his arm free of them. 

 

“Don’t.” 

 

The voice was quiet, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. He didn’t relax, but he didn’t struggle as much against the bonds. The owner of the voice stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. He walked over to the chair next to the bed and sat, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man that had joined him.

 

He could feel the eyes scanning over him and locking on where his arm should have been. James. That was his name, he remembered. His name was James. The man in front of him, he had never really called him James. He had always called him by a nickname - What was it again? He couldn’t recall. 

 

He –James, he kept reminding himself. He could feel pieces coming back, fixing themselves together. He could hear screaming in his head; see the blood staining the metal fingers that had been taken away from him. He could feel the breath being squeezed out of the man’s throat, and he could taste the regret that was sinking into every fibre of who he was.

 

Except he wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Without his arm, without the life that they had placed inside his head, who was he? He couldn’t be the man he was before, because he didn’t remember how to be. His memories might be coming back, but he couldn’t be that person again. Not after everything he had done. The kills would always stay with him. He would remember each and every one of them. He would remember how cold the Soldier was while he followed his orders. He had always been good at that, being cold, being merciless. 

 

He wasn’t the Soldier anymore. He was just James, or at least he thought he was. He was just a man without meaning, a relic that should have been left where it had crashed down to. They should have never found him. They should have never created the monster that he had been for so long. 

 

His struggling had long since stopped when he finally allowed himself to glance at the man sitting in the uncomfortable looking plastic chair next to the bed. His eyebrows were knitted together but he wasn’t looking toward his face. He was looking toward where the metal should have met flesh, connecting the two together. James watches him, wary of what might happen, but all the man across from him does is sigh inwardly, rubbing his hand across his forehead. Somewhere inside his mind, his voice is telling him that the man thinks it’s his fault that he lost it. That it’s his fault that the Russians took him in and moulded him to be the perfect killing machine. He looked broken, lost in a sea of words that he will never say to James. Those eyes, those blue eyes belonging to a man he had known long before, were now looking for his.

 

He wasn’t just _a_ man though, was he? This man was Captain America. He was everything that James had always seen him as. It had just taken the world longer to catch up with him, that was all. He wondered if he had been made into what he had always meant to be too. Was he always supposed to be a master assassin, killing who he was told and not thinking twice about it? Pain stretched across his temples at the thought, seeing flashes of the Soldier’s murders. He tried again to lift his hand, only to be met with the tug of the restraints holding him down. He groaned, tearing his eyes away from the ones that were boring into his own. 

 

Eyes. 

 

James saw it in his mind. There were two young boys walking down the street, one smaller and thinner than the other. The bigger of the two had his arm slung around the shoulders of the other boy, and both were laughing. James could hear the laughter – the larger one, the brunette, had a boisterous laugh, while the blond had more of a reserved sound leaving his mouth. The two of them were barely older than twelve, James thought. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, not until the image started to fade, tucking itself away into a deep corner of his mind. It happened just after it faded completely, with James seeing the blond nudge his elbow against the other’s ribcage. The very last words, the ones that triggered him, came from the brunette. 

 

This time when he met the blue eyes, he searched them. Searched them for anything that he could take from them, soaking it all in. This man had been his best friend, once over. This man possibly still thought of James as his best friend, even after everything. James shook his head faintly, listening to the last words from the memory echo inside his head. The other man looked like he was giving up. He looked broken, torn apart by the actions of the Soldier. The eyes tore away from his own and James was left to stare at the top of his head; at the blond hair that had was still cropped short. James wasn’t sure what he could do, not until he had heard those last words. James knew what he had to do then, just to show the Captain that he wasn’t what he had been made to be. He was starting to remember, and he wanted the Captain to know about that. 

 

James took one more look at the top of his head before he opened his mouth. The sounds felt foreign in his mouth, having not spoken it in so long. His voice was hoarse and scratched, making him wonder how long he had been sleeping. Finally, it was his tongue that felt heavy. It was almost wrong, speaking in a forgotten language. Still, he proceeded to say the words, now almost desperate for the Captain believe that he was here. 

 

“Hey, punk.”


	2. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without his bionic arm, Bucky Barnes looked every bit a soldier that had been injured in war. That is, if Bucky Barnes was still in there.

He could hear the struggling from inside the room before he had even opened the door. The restraints that were pinning the soldier down were the strongest that S.H.I.E.L.D. had to offer, and even then the soldier was bound to get out of them if he was left long enough. If they hadn’t taken his arm already, he wouldn’t still be in the building. He would be long gone, with only the broken restraints and warm sheet on the thin bed to prove that he had even been there. 

His hand closed around the handle of the door and he pushed it open silently, seeing the panic crossing the thrashing soldier’s face. He had seen him turn to look at the empty space that should have been filled with the bionic arm that he had been fitted with for so long. The soldier started to struggle more, and then he couldn’t help himself. He had to speak to the soldier. 

“Don’t.”

Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper. The struggling lessened, but didn’t stop completely. As Steve stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself, he could feel the soldier’s eyes raking over him. However, as he sat the soldier turned away. Steve took the opportunity to run his eyes over him, stopping when he reached the empty space that should have been where his left arm was. 

Without his bionic arm, Bucky Barnes looked every bit a soldier that had been injured in war. That is, if Bucky Barnes was still in there. Steve wasn’t sure who the man was that had woken up in the room, strapped down to the bed. Was he Bucky Barnes, Steve’s best friend, the man he had grown up with, looked up to, and had mourned the loss of? Was he James Buchanan Barnes, the Sergeant that Steve had wanted to go to war with? Or was he the Winter Soldier, the man that had tried to kill him, still disorientated from the amount of sedatives it had taken to be able to hold him like this? It could have been any of those three men wearing the face of his best friend. 

Steve still had nightmares about that day. Every so often he would wake up in a cold sweat, panting while his memory burned with the image of Bucky falling and Steve being unable to reach him. He missed every time that he reached out for Bucky, no matter how many times he lived it. He was never there to catch Bucky like Bucky was there to catch him. Bucky had always had Steve’s back, from the time that they were young. If a bigger child picked on Steve in the orphanage, Bucky was there to put them in their place. If someone was beating him up in an alley, then Bucky was there to hit the man so hard that he wouldn’t even look in Steve’s direction again. Bucky had always been there, protecting him, and Steve had let him down. He had let him fall off the train. He had left him to the river and to the Russians. Steve had given his best friend up the second that he disappeared into the mountains, and hadn’t even bothered to look for the body. If he would have looked, he would have found him. 

But he hadn’t. Steve had gone to mourn, unable to drown his sorrows with the whiskey that had always been Bucky’s favourite, while his best friend had been tortured in the worst ways that Steve could imagine. The arm had looked painful. The scars that spread around where it fit to him were still red and raised, as if they were constantly sore. If he thought about it hard enough, Steve could hear the screams that had probably escaped Bucky as he was fitted with it. If there was one thing different about the serum that Bucky had, it was that he didn’t heal like Steve did. There were scars covering him, some more prominent than others. Steve didn’t want to think about what Bucky had been through. He couldn’t think about what Bucky had been through. 

Steve wasn’t quick enough. He felt Bucky look at him, but Steve’s attention was on where Bucky’s arm should have been. The look was too quick, and Steve sighed, rubbing his forehead. There was no doubt in his mind that Bucky blamed him for it, and for it all. He had the right to. Steve knew that, and he wouldn’t blame him for one second if Bucky lashed out at him. He deserved it. He deserved everything that Bucky was going to say, and every punch that might reach him. Captain America had failed. Steve had failed. He saw from the corner of his eye that Bucky had made to raise his hand, only to be met with the tug of restraints. The groan that came from him made Steve want to move closer. Bucky wanted to hit him, and Steve wanted to let him. He needed to let Bucky hit him, even if it wasn’t Bucky that was occupying the mind at the moment. 

Bucky fell still. Steve tensed. He didn’t know what was running through his mind, but he didn’t like the way that it had made Bucky’s breath fall short. His eyebrows furrowed and his hand clenched into a fist, and Steve had to fight the urge to reach out and tap him. Whatever it was that was going on inside his head, it was making him blink rapidly. As Steve went to speak, the blue eyes of his best friend found his own and locked with them, making the words catch in Steve’s throat. 

It was the first time that those eyes had found him since he had entered the room. Bucky’s eyes reflected so much sadness that it made Steve’s chest tight. There was hurt inside them, wrapped around horrors that no man should ever have to see or be a part of. They were the eyes of someone who had fallen short of who they could have been. They were the eyes of a man who was terrified that they would wake and everything would be different. They were the eyes of a broken, beaten, shell of the owner that they had once had. 

Bucky’s eyes didn’t tear away from Steve’s, and Steve’s didn’t leave his. Steve was so focused on staring into the eyes of Bucky, trying to figure out which version of him had woken, that he didn’t see Bucky open his mouth. 

The words that followed were almost foreign to Steve. He hadn’t heard them in so long that it took the air right out of him. His eyes began to fill up, breathing out a sigh of relief. It might not have been all of Bucky that had woken, but that didn’t matter. The words let Steve know that he was still in there somewhere, and he was coming around. He was waking up, and he was there to stay.

“Hey, punk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write a companion piece to 'Waking' as someone suggested that they would like to see it through Steve's eyes as well as Bucky's.


End file.
